


Castle Black Mamba

by sergeant_angel



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Face Stealing, Gen, arya gets done with assassin training early, arya is from the North so of course she's Cold Blooded, arya is nowhere near fucking around, arya kills some people, arya's braavos storyline wraps up sooner, canon character death, i think i meant this to be...funny...and it...turned dark, that or everybody else's story was just on hold until she got done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-19 22:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_angel/pseuds/sergeant_angel
Summary: Arya arrives at Castle Black, faces in a bag and Needle at her side, Jon's blood still warm on the snow.So much of her family has been stolen from her, but she takes comfort in this:There is always room for more names on her list.(and the Night's Watch is about to learn she is very good at crossing them off)





	Castle Black Mamba

**Author's Note:**

> Assume that everything in Westeros was just sort of paused while Arya was training with the Faceless Men, and that she returned to Westeros at the end of season five. does that make sense?

A shout goes up and the gate creaks as it swings open, slowly revealing the heart of Castle Black.  

Breathing becomes difficult, as if her lungs are gripped in a vice. The still-new scars from her attack at the hand of the Waif itch, and Arya shifts in the saddle.  

 _Calm as still water_ , Syrio Forel's voice reminds her. Arya breathes, and settles. She should have waited til morning; should have made camp to rest her mount, but the specter of the Twins hung over her, filled her until she wanted to scream, the feeling that she would arrive just too late. 

The men around her seem curiously silent as she dismounts, leading her horse forward as the gate swings shut behind her.  

"M'lady?" A man says, and Arya registers the strange atmosphere in the courtyard. It would be easy to dismiss it as being due to her late night arrival at Castle Black, but now that she is taking the time to look, it becomes clear she is not the reason for the air of unease that lingers.  

A wolf howls nearby and in the deepest part of her being Arya _knows_ it is Nymeria, howling because Ghost is here. If Ghost is here, Jon is here.  

Nymeria howls again just as a breeze twists up, scattering flurries of snow and bringing with it an acrid, iron tang that tastes as much as it smells. 

Blood. 

There is more than enough light from the moonlight and the torches; more than enough for a girl who is no longer blind, who learned how to find things without her eyes. 

Arya pulls No One around her like a cloak to shield her from whatever comes next.  

It is with No One's feet that she turns, with No One's eyes that she looks, that she sees a man on the ground, dark stains around him in a crisp red, the snow keeping the blood from drying brown. No One's steps take her closer, No One's eyes feed No One's mind with the terrible scene laid out in front of her.  

No One drops to her knees, reaches her hand out to smooth a curl back from Jon Snow's cold forehead, and suddenly, suddenly, No One sloughs off of her, like kindling flaking away to ash at the bottom of a fire.  

It is Arya Stark's voice that howls out in pain. 

Too late.  

Always too late. 

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

"You're Arya," one of the men kneeling next to her says. His is scraggly and unkempt, his nose hooked. He jerks his head towards her waist "That's Needle, innit? You're his sister." 

Arya swallows against the hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble out of her mouth, unwanted and unwarranted.  

"He talks about you—talked--" 

"Help me get him inside," a different man says. Arya stares at him. He belongs here no more than she does; unlike the handful of other men around them, unlike Jon, he doesn't wear the black.  

The men listen to him, at any rate. Three of them pick up Jon's body-- 

"Milady," the man who is not of the Watch says, gripping her elbow and drawing her up. "We need to get inside." 

Jon's blood, a dark, inky spill in the snow, dull, now, in the moonlight. Jon Snow. Snow in the snow, blood on the snow--  

 _Calm as still water. Strong as a bear_. 

She allows the man to lead her inside. 

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

They take Jon to his rooms, scattering papers from a table to make room for his body. 

Arya only half-listens to the conversation happening around her as gathers the brittle shards of herself, of nobody, and pulls them back to her chest.  

They say a name. _Thorne._ It dissolves like a sweet on her tongue. _Thorne._ Another name. Another name, but there will be more. More than one knife did this, and those who held them will die. 

A man closes Jon's wide-staring eyes and a few of Arya's closely-gathered pieces slip from her fingers for a moment.  

She can hear wolves howling from here.  

Too late. Always too late. It does not feel like a cruel trick of the gods; it does not feel like a twist of fate. It feels like nothing. All Arya knows has slipped from her grasp and she allows herself this moment to feel untethered from everything, drifting in a haze of pain. 

Ser Davos sets in motion a plan that she hears but does not comprehend, that she can't find the room to care about. She hears him say Ghost. She holds Jon's cold hand in hers and starts to mend herself, as best she can, as quickly as she can. She cannot remain adrift forever, and she knows but one rope to pull herself ashore with.  

"Names," she says into what feels like an interminable silence. 

"What, child?" Ser Davos crouches by her side, a gentle hand on her elbow. 

"The names of the men that did this to Jon. I need their names." 

There is a knock at the door, a soft voice that calls "Ser Davos?" A woman, cloaked in red.  

The Witch.  

" _You_ ," Arya growls as the witch approaches Jon, slim hand reaching out from under her red cloak. "Get away." 

"I told you we would meet again, child," she says, ignoring Arya's demand and standing over Jon's cold body, her hand stroking over Jon's cheek. 

A wolf snarls and snaps inside Arya's chest. "Get away from him." 

"I saw him, in the flames. Fighting at Winterfell," the Witch says, as if Arya isn't even in the room. "I saw him." 

The Witch and Davos exchange words before the woman leaves, as quickly as she came. 

More minutes, more movement.  

Ghost. 

Ghost lays on her feet, her toes going numb from his weight. 

Her whole body feels heavy, as if someone poured lead into her veins. Her head is too heavy to hold up, resting on the table. "Cersei," Arya murmurs against Jon's hand, still clasped in her own. "Thorne. The Witch. Illyn Payne. The Mountain." 

"Milady," the man—Ser Davos, she thinks—interrupts her. "If you don't mind me asking, who are you?" 

"I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell," her voice is dull. 

"Arya Stark is dead, milady." 

"Just so." 

Ghost paws at her foot, and she reaches down to scratch him behind the ears. 

"Well, the wolf trusts you, that much is certain. Where have you been the past few years, if you don't mind my asking, Lady Stark?" 

"Harrenhal. I traveled with the Brotherhood without banners for a time. That's how I know the red witch. The Hound was to ransom me to my brother and my mother but we arrived at the Twins too late." Air shudders out of her. "I've just returned from Braavos." 

The information has the hoped-for effect. She can see Ser Davos' expression change as soon as she says the name: his eyes widen, his nostrils flare, his jaw tightens.  

"What was your business in Braavos?" 

She could rebuff him, tell him her business is not his concern, but he is here with her and Jon and that affords him a measure of trust. 

"Valar morghulis." 

Davos nods, suspicions confirmed.  

She wonders if he is afraid, or disgusted. 

"Valar dohaeris," Ser Davos responds, and Arya offers him a smile that is more No One than Arya Stark. "I'm Ser Davos Seaworth, milady. Your brother was a good man. He didn't deserve this." 

"Does death only come to the deserving?"  

"No," Davos sighs heavily. "No, I suppose it doesn't." 

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

Hours pass; hours trickle by like slow-melting ice at the first pale brush of spring.  

Jon's hand is stiff in hers but Arya can't let go of it. Scars wrap around the back of his hand, encircle his fingers, from a burn perhaps. Now she'll never know all that happened in the years they were apart. 

"I don't care who's sitting at the High Table," Edd growls as Arya drifts back into focus. "Jon was my friend. And those fuckers butchered him. Now we return the favor." 

"We don't have the numbers." 

"We have a direwolf!" 

"It's not enough," Davos remains calm even as Edd paces restlessly, his anger as tangible as heat from a fire. "I didn't know Lord Commander Snow for long but I have to believe he wouldn't have wanted his friends to die for nothing." 

"If you were planning on seeing tomorrow, you picked the wrong room. We all die today." 

"No," Arya finds No One's voice. "We don't die today. They do. We have a direwolf, and we have me." 

She can feel the eyes of the Night's Watch on her. Unbelieving.  

"I know you've survived on your own, Lady Stark," Edd begins, but Davos interrupts him. 

"Lady Stark, do you think that's how your brother would want to be avenged?" 

She stares at Davos for a long moment. "Perhaps not, Ser Davos. But he was killed by men sworn to be loyal to him. He isn't here, so they will get the justice I deliver." Something that might be a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "I will give them the gift." 

Edd coughs. "No disrespect, Lady Arya, but these are trained men of the night's Watch. And you're..." He gestures at her. Perhaps he means that she's small, or a woman. Perhaps he means something else.  

"I think we'd be surprised at what Arya Stark is," Ser Davos muses. "I think we'd be surprised at who she is when she's not Arya Stark." 

Edd stares, huffing his confusion, and Arya offers him a sharp, brittle smile.  

"Regardless of the lady's skills, though, we could certainly benefit from larger numbers," Davos moves between Arya and Edd. "And the men of the Watch aren't the only ones who owe Jon Snow their lives." 

It makes Arya ache to think of all that Jon has done since they last saw one another. All the stories they will never tell one another, all the comfort they cannot give. 

"Their names," she says after Edd leaves, after he and Davos talk around something that she does not know. "I need the names of the men who did this to him." 

"Aye," Davos nods, his eyes meeting hers. She can see him suppress a shudder at whatever he sees in her. "Aye, we'll get them for you." He nods his head at one of the men, who disappears.  

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

More hours pass and there is another knock at the door. Ser Alliser stands on the other side of the door, this man who killed her brother, and nothing but lies come out of his mouth. His footsteps recede and Arya and Davos look at one another, understanding passing between them. 

"He's lying," she says, and he nods again. 

"Milady. I know you aren't going to like this suggestion—and I hold no great love for the Red Woman—but I've seen things. Seen her do things. She might be able to help, her and her Lord of Light." 

Arya remembers Thoros of Myr, she remembers Beric Dondarrian being cut down by the Hound and then standing again, alive when he should be dead.  

It will not work. Jon is more than a day dead, and the gods do not give back what they have taken. 

But still. 

Still. 

She looks at Jon, letting what Davos is suggesting root itself in her mind, before she nods. The Many-Faced God will have other names besides Jon's, other faces. She will see to that.  

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

"I know some of their names," one of the men of the Watch says, standing across from her. "Ser Alliser Thorne. Bowen Marsh. Othell Yarwyck. Olly." 

"Ser Alliser Thorne," she repeats. "Bowen Marsh. Othell Yarwyck. Olly." 

"Milady?" Ser Davos is at her side again, his voice quiet.  

"Cersei. Ser Alliser. Bowen Marsh. Othell Yarwyck. Olly," Arya begins, the names falling from her lips like a prayer learned as a child and ingrained in her tongue. "The Witch. Illyn Payne. The Mountain. " 

"Milady?" 

Arya raises her head, remembers a boy with blue eyes and dark hair who could make metal sing.  

"Don't call me milady. I'm not a lady." She reaches into her bag and pulls out the face of Walder Frey. "I'm no one." 

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

No One crawls out of a window, landing lightly and springing up with an ease that pairs ill with the age of the face she is wearing.  

No matter. The face is simply a precaution to make roaming Castle Black a simpler task. 

 _Ser_ _Alliser_ _Thorne_ _._ _Bowen Marsh._ _Othell_ _Yarwyck_ _. Olly_ _._ No One turns the names over in her head. Maybe not quite No One, but not quite Arya Stark, either. No One allows her body to feel the age of the face she wears, stooped spine and painful joints slowing her steps, nodding to the solitary guard No One passes. 

Bowen Marsh is in the kitchens.  

"Did you kill Jon Snow?" 

"Aye," he looks at the face she's wearing. "I don't recognize you." 

"You wouldn't," No One reassures him before stabbing him in the stomach, once, twice, three times. She twists the dagger on the last and watches as shock and pain contort the face of Bowen Marsh. Blood coats her hand, the blade, makes the hilt slip against her palm as she steps back and pulls Walder Frey's face off.  

"I want you to know that you killed a Stark, so a Stark killed you. Do you understand?" 

Bowen Marsh coughs a great bloody cough and collapses, his feet scrabbling against the floor as he tries to get away from her.  

"I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell," she says, because he still seems confused. "You killed my brother Jon Snow." 

"Stay away from the fire," No One tells him. "I need your face." 

 _Ser_ _Alliser_ _Thorne_ _._ _Bowen Marsh._ _Othell_ _Yarwyck_ _. Olly_ _._  

 _Ser_ _Alliser_ _Thorne_ _._ _Bowen Marsh._ _Othell_ _Yarwyck_ _. Olly_ _._  

Another cough.  

The only sound left in the room is the crackle of wood in the fireplace. 

 _Ser_ _Alliser_ _Thorne_ _._ _Othell_ _Yarwyck_ _. Olly_ _._  

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

 Arya slips back into the room with Jon's body, where Ghost and Ser Davos keep vigil with Jon's brothers of the Watch.  It seems strange that after all her time in the House of Black and White and all the bodies she helped prepare after they had been given the gift that she should feel so strange about leaving this body alone.  

The body is not Jon; it simply belonged to him. Someplace he lived that he left. A mangled thought streaks through her mind, of wearing Jon's face and seeking his justice. Of being No One and Arya Stark and Jon Snow, all of them and none of them as she crosses names off of her list. 

Arya Stark cannot do this, because when Arya Stark thinks of taking a knife to Jon Snow's face, cutting into the dead flesh and peeling it away, her teeth clench and tears burn at her eyes and bile rises in her throat. 

Arya does not know if there is enough of No One in her to be able to do it, if she is strong enough to stop being Arya Stark to do this. Her hand trembles as she brushes her fingers through Jon's dark curls, along the once-healing cut that curves around his eye, grazing the end of his eyebrow.  

"When Edd returns," Davos says, what might be comfort in his voice. "When we have more men, the Red Woman will give us a miracle." 

Ser Davos doesn't believe this. 

"Lady Stark." A hand swims into her field of vision, fingers shorn to the last joint, resting on her hand. "Arya. Leave it. You do not need it." 

A blessing, a reprieve, a reminder.  

Arya nods. No One nods. 

"Just so. Thank you, Ser Davos Seaworth." 

Ser Davos barks a laugh. "Never thought I'd be this close to a Faceless Man and live to know about it." 

Arya Stark smiles at him. 

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

No One wears the face of Bowen Marsh. The body that once belonged to the face of Bowen Marsh has been tucked into a dark corner of the kitchen. By the time his body is discovered, No One will have a different face, or No One will be known as the ghost of Bowen Marsh, haunting Castle Black. 

Evening is fading into morning and Bowen Marsh nods to the men of the Night's Watch as they pass to begin the duties of the day.  

 _Othell_ _Yarwyck_. He is in his chambers when No One finds him, strapping on a sword. "The Lord Commander summon us?" 

No One shakes her head. 

"What are you here for, then?" 

"We killed Jon Snow," Bowen Marsh's voice fills her mouth. 

Yarwyck grunts. "Too late to regret it." 

"We betrayed our Lord Commander." 

"Thorne's our Lord Commander now, like he should have been from the start. Fucking Tarly," he spits into the fire. "Putting Snow's name in. Had no right to."  

No One laughs in agreement, pulling out a flask and passing it off to Othell Yarwyck.  

Othell grunts his thanks and drinks deep. "Good, that. What is it?" 

No One counts the seconds in her head before pulling the face of Bowen Marsh off with a smile.  

"If there is something after death, and you see Jon Snow, please tell him Arya sent you. Can you do that?" 

Othell Yarwyck looks at No One in terror, and she smiles as his legs go out from him, collapsing against a table. She smiles as his last breath rattles in his chest, and she smiles as she wipes the foam away from his mouth and throws the scrap of fabric into the fire.  

 _Ser_ _Alliser_ _Thorne_ _._ _Olly_ _._  

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

Olly is a boy. He is a boy who has lost his family. Arya Stark knows what this feels like.  

Perhaps he is older than she was, perhaps he's younger. She cannot tell.  

She knows he betrayed her brother. She knows he killed her brother.  

The boy Olly doesn't see her as she slips into his room, quiet as a shadow. 

The rising sun washes the black of night into blue and Arya speaks. 

"Why did you do it?" 

The boy starts, drawing his sword slow and clumsy. "Who are you?" 

Arya wears no face but her own as she steps into the light so he may see her. "My name is Arya," she tells him. "Jon Snow was my brother." 

"That's a lie! Arya Stark is dead, everyone knows it." 

"Well, if _everyone_ knows it, it must be true," No One concedes. "I must be dead." 

"Are you her ghost, then?" The boy looks more frightened of that than anything. "Come to get revenge?" 

"I'm not here for revenge," No One says, not unkindly. "I'm here for justice." 

Olly stares at her. 

"So I'll ask you again: why did you kill Jon Snow?" 

"They killed my _family!"_ Olly cried. "And he let them in!" 

"Who?" 

"The Wildlings! They murdered my parents in front of me. And Jon Snow saved me, he did, but then he let them cross the Wall like they was _people!"_  

"I understand," she says, because she does.  

"They killed my family!" He shouts, he pleads. 

"And you killed mine," she says.  

Her blade is sharp and her hand is sure; the boy is dead before he can even think to be truly frightened.  

It is more than this boy did for Jon, but she thinks he would approve of this boy receiving a swift death. 

It is as much mercy as she can manage. 

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

 _Ser_ _Alliser_ _Thorne._  

Arya is back at Jon's side, Ghost at her feet, and one name left as night settles around them. 

 _Ser_ _Alliser_ _Thorne_. 

Edd of the Night's Watch has yet to return and the only name left is standing at the door, lying to them again.  

"Open the door," he says, "and the men inside can rejoin their brothers in peace." 

"I can't," Arya says. "You killed my brother." 

There is a long moment of silence before Alliser Thorne speaks. "And who are you?" 

"I'm no one." 

"You'd be the one killing my men, then." 

"Don't worry. I'm going to kill you, too." She rises, drawing Needle and the men around her draw their own swords, and the wood of the door starts to splinter under an axe. 

It shudders, and shudders again, thuds echoing through the room. 

The thuds continue, get louder, but the door stops moving. 

Wood shatters and metal screams as the gates of Castle Black are broken. 

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

There is a giant.  

There are Wildlings.  

These are the people Jon saved. The people he died for.  

Alliser calls his men cowards as they lower their swords. Perhaps they are. Perhaps they hold no love for Thorne; perhaps they did love Jon. Mayhap they believe the whispers, that Jon Snow's ghost roams the halls of Castle Black, and maybe a giant picking up a brother of the Night's Watch and cracking him against a wall like a child might a toy, is why they lay down their arms. 

A man with hair more red even than Sansa's grabs hold of Thorne. 

"Excuse me," Arya says, pleasant as can be. "That man is mine." 

The red haired man swears but Arya smiles at him. "It's all right. Let him go." 

"Do as she says," Ser Davos commands, and the man looks to Edd, who looks to Davos, who nods.  

"I don't think you know who I am," she tells Alliser. "I'm Arya Stark." 

"Arya Stark is dead." Thorne spits. "Why do I care?" 

"Because I'm Arya Stark, and I'm going to kill you." 

"Easy to kill a man when he's unarmed. Even a little bitch like you could manage it." 

"This is Needle," Arya draws her blade, eyes dancing along its silvered edge. "Jon gave it to me. Jon was my family, and you killed my family." 

"I did what needed to be done," Thorne growls. "For the safety of the Seven Kingdoms."  

"You killed him. You killed him minutes before I rode through the gates of Castle Black. The Freys killed my mother and brother minutes before I reached the Twins, on the night of the Red Wedding, and now the Freys are dead." 

Arya takes Alliser's sword from Edd and tosses it at his feet. Thorne rises, and Arya knows that he will be hard to kill. He will fight.  

The thought is sweet. 

Alliser Thorne is brute strength and years of skills honed on the Wall. He hacks and slashes, he opens one gash on Arya's arm, another on her shoulder, one at her leg. 

He is big and overconfident, and it is easy for Arya to get inside his reach, to duck under his arm and his sword and jab, sharp and swift that leaves Needle's tip dark with his blood. 

 _Calm as still water. Quick as a snake. Swift as a deer. Fierce as a wolverine. Strong as a bear. Quiet as a shadow._  

Arya flows; she is not No One, she is Needle. She cuts quick at an exposed sliver of flesh at Thorne's wrist; she slams her foot into the wound so he drops the sword and she kicks it away. 

 _Stick them with the pointy end._  

A jab to his throat and Thorne clutches at himself, red seeping through his fingers and down the black he wears.  

He tries to speak and can't.  

He can only bleed, and know that he is dying.  

Arya kneels near him, Needle waiting against her knees should their work not be done. 

She stares at Alliser Thorne as he struggles for breath, trying to stanch the flow of his life into the dirt.  

Arya watches him as the minutes pass so he knows: 

This is Jon Snow's justice.  

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

The Red Woman washes Jon clean of blood, and muscle memory that belongs to No One grips Arya.  

No One should be doing this, but the woman insists—it must be her hands, and her hands alone that prepare him for whatever ritual she intends to do. 

A miracle, Ser Davos says. 

Arya does not believe in miracles; No One believes in nothing.  

The Red Woman is gentle as she strips Jon of his bloody black; patient as she cleans the blood off, though it has dried sticky on his skin.  

Pass after pass of a soft cloth on Jon's chest, on his stomach, revealing seven wounds, seven, _the seven_ _Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger_ , dark and smooth-edged where _all men are made of water, if you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die_. 

There are no miracles. Death does not return what it has already claimed.  

Arya sinks to the floor and buries her face in Ghost's fur. 

 _What do we say to death?_ Her thoughts fade in and out as the Red Woman continues to clean Jon, as the water turns as red as her hair. Her scissors snip as she trims his curls, his beard, offering them into the flames for her Lord of Light. _There is only one thing we say to death._  

 _Not today_. 

                                                                                                    *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 

The Woman prays in Valyrian. She prays, and repeats the prayer, and the words wind through the fog in Arya's mind, echoing long after the woman has left, after everyone has left, after the fire has burned low and the wind blows through the cracks in the door. 

The prayer tangles with other things in her mind, the prayer and _not today, not today, not today_ chasing each other around her mind until finally even that falls silent. 

She is neither asleep nor awake when she hears the desperate gasp. 

Her mind goes perfectly, completely still as she fights her way back to consciousness, as the sound of shuddering breaths fill the room.  

Her eyes fly open. 

Jon is sitting up. Jon is breathing. 

Jon is breathing, something Arya is having trouble with at the moment.  

Jon's whole body shakes every time he breathes. He looks down, his fingers touching the knife wounds that killed him and he gasps again. 

He shivers in horror; he shivers because it's cold. Arya tears her cloak off and drapes it around his naked shoulders. It's too small by far but better than nothing. He clutches the fur to himself as Arya rubs his arms, his back, trying to warm limbs that were cold and dead. "It's all right," she soothes. "You're all right," even though it might be that neither of these things are true. "Ser Davos!" Arya's voice cracks. "Ser Davos!" 

Footsteps pound outside and the door flies open. 

She can feel Jon turn slowly to face her.  

"Arya?" He croaks. "No. You can't— _Arya_?" His brushes the hair out of her eyes with trembling fingers. "I'm—I'm dead." His hand covers one of the gashes in his stomach.  

"What do you remember?" Davos cuts in urgently, throwing his cloak around Jon, tugging it high against his neck. The woman stands in the doorway, eyes wide. 

She did this. She brought Jon back. 

"They stabbed me. Olly—put a knife in my heart," Jon's face crumples as he remembers. His hand shifts under wool as he touches where the knife entered him. "I shouldn't be here." 

" _Jon_ ," Arya grips the back of his neck, squeezing until his eyes meet hers. She can't find the words, the right way to say them, she holds him and stares, hoping he understands her as he once did, hoping he knows that they are together and that is everything. They aren't alone. They're pack again, and the pack survives. Sansa and Bran and Rickon—they'll find them.  

"After they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?" The Red Woman intrudes, crouching in front of Jon to draw his attention, eager and demanding. 

Arya makes to stand, get her away from Jon, but Davos holds up a hand. "Lady Melisandre, a moment, please?" 

Her eyes devour Jon, full of greed and triumph and hope, before nodding to Davos. 

"Arya?" Jon ignores Davos and the woman Melisandre. His cold fingers are at her chin, turning her face so he can see her, staring at her as though and second she might disappear. "It's really you?" 

"I think so." 

"I used to dream," he starts with a choked-off laugh, "used to dream you disguised yourself as a boy and came North to take the black." 

"I almost did," she admits. "But that story will keep for now." 

His smile is almost familiar; there are too many new layers of sadness and pain for it to be truly familiar, but it is enough. It is not what she had hoped for, or dreamed about, but it's enough, it's _more_ than enough. 

"Thorne," Jon says suddenly. "Bowen Marsh--" 

"Dead," Arya takes one of Jon's hands in hers and squeezes. "You don't have to worry." 

Jon looks as if he'd quite like to worry when his eyes catch on something at her hip. "Is that...?" 

"Needle," Arya nods. 

"Arya," he says her name again, voice thick with emotion as he rubs his thumbs under her eyes, and Arya realizes she's weeping. "It's all right--" 

"You were dead!" Fear curdles her stomach even though Jon is alive in front of her. She did not know how ingrained in her the fear was until it was gone, leaving her off balance and heartsore. "I thought—I thought--"  

"I know," his voice is low with despair. "But we're not. We're--" 

"Pack," they say together.

Arya swipes at his cheeks with the sleeve of her tunic and it comes away damp with his tears. She looks at Jon, shaking in a pile of wool cloaks and suddenly realizes-- 

                --she's here, she made it-- 

She flings her arms around Jon and he pulls her so tight she thinks her head might come off; she can hear the pulse in his neck under her ear, can feel every breath he takes, and all of it is impossible but somehow real. 

                                                            --she is Arya Stark, and she is _home_. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> is it dramatically satisfying for Jon to kill the people who killed him? Sure  
> is it also dramatically satisfying for Arya to go all Kill Bill on people who killed Jon? I mean clearly i think so  
> i'm not super confident in my characterization so helpful comments are welcome, since apparently I can't stop writing Arya to save my life


End file.
